


'LASOMH' Frontman Dean Winchester Opens Up About Life, Love, and Getting Hit By A Truck

by anti_ela



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Journalism, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 06:53:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anti_ela/pseuds/anti_ela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>by Chuck Shurley</p>
<p>If you were to ask the frontman of Like A Seal Over My Heart what the best day of his life was, he’d smile, look down, and laugh a little—not in a way that made you feel foolish for asking, but to let you know he’s aware that he’s a fool for answering as he does. Then he’d lick his lips, look straight into your eyes, and with just the right crinkle in his smile, just the right amount of rough velvet in his voice, he’d say, “You know, actually, it’s the day I was hit by a truck.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	'LASOMH' Frontman Dean Winchester Opens Up About Life, Love, and Getting Hit By A Truck

'LASOMH' Frontman Dean Winchester Opens Up About Life, Love, and Getting Hit By A Truck

by Chuck Shurley

If you were to ask the frontman of Like A Seal Over My Heart what the best day of his life was, he’d smile, look down, and laugh a little—not in a way that made you feel foolish for asking, but to let you know he’s aware that he’s a fool for answering as he does. Then he’d lick his lips, look straight into your eyes, and with just the right crinkle in his smile, just the right amount of rough velvet in his voice, he’d say, “You know, actually, it’s the day I was hit by a truck.”

It’s okay if, at this point, you look confused and ask him to repeat himself. He’s expecting it, really he is. He’s got a laugh all lined up inside of him to deal with your reaction.

But if, instead, you lean in a little closer and say, “That’s how you met Castiel, right?” he might just be shocked enough to like you.

And if you happen to make a point of saying, as coolly as you can, “You know, we’ve got five pages to play with,” well. You might even learn a few things.

He leans back, gets comfortable. I offer him some more whiskey and pour us both another round. It’s good stuff—his favorite—and he murmurs that his uncle Bobby, LASOMH’s first manager, got him started on the stuff. “Johnnie Walker Blue is what he bought us when our first record printed. But you probably already knew that, huh?” I did. I also knew that the boys had been seventeen at the time. When I ask about this, Dean shrugs. “We were in Germany. It was legal there. Besides, my old man’d been slipping me beers since I was ten.”

"So you still think that’s okay, considering?"

"Hell yeah, man. Look, I’m not saying he treated us right all the time. But he gets a Christmas card the same as the rest of the family, you know?"

I don’t ask if he’s talking about Bobby or John, and I don’t know if he’s sure which he’s leapt to defend, either.

I take another sip.

"But that’s kinda where it all started, you know? When you’re famous, people don’t want you to be bored. They think that, the moment you have time to think about your life, you’ll realize it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. And this is such a shitty thing to say when people are living and dying on the streets, but it’s not. If you stop long enough, if you let yourself get sober long enough, you realize none of it means shit."

And you know, I kinda believe him.

"So," he gestures vaguely, "you stop letting yourself be sober. And then these same fuckers who’ve been giving you pills and letting pretty girls through security tell you that you look like shit and your rep’s in the toilet and hey have you ever thought about rehab?" He snorts. "Of course, the places they select are never actual medical facilities. Nobody there gives a shit if you recover. But if your skin’s all glowy and you’re not snapping at everyone in sight, hey, man, maybe you can be the tabloids’ darling again."

"Because that position’s worth it," I say, thinking of some of the pictures I’ve seen in the supermarket aisles.

"Right?" he shakes his head. "But like I said, that’s where it started. So I go to fairy princess rehab for well-adjusted lost boys, miss the birth of my kid by a girl I’d shared all of a weekend with, my dad files for custodianship because he’s just real concerned, my brother… my brother’s good to me. Hell, he even visited me. You’re not supposed to, you know. You’re supposed to focus all your healing power on getting well and shit like that. But I was real motivated, and he got in. Being with him was probably the only healing part of the whole ordeal."

He scrubs a hand through his short hair.

"To be honest, even though the circumstances were fake as fuck, it was still kind of a wake-up call. Once I got out in all of thirty days, with the president of the center herself claiming me healed, I wrote to the mom of my kid—she named him Ben, which I like—and asked her how much involvement she’d be okay with me having. Handwritten, you know, so she’d know it was serious. She called and said she’d move back to L.A. if I’d promise to only be around when I’m aware of my surroundings. Her exact words."

"That’s Lisa, right? She always seemed cool under fire."

Dean nods. “Unfortunately, she had to be. The press was shit to her. You know, there were people whose fucking job it was to follow her around, and what does she do? Bakes them fucking cookies on Ben’s first birthday.” He laughs. “We tried to make it work as a mom and dad team, but the truth was, she doesn’t need somebody she has to take care of. And at the time, everybody had to take care of me. I think she did the best she could’ve done, but I couldn’t tell you why she never threw me out on the street. When I finally woke up to that, I saw myself out.” He swirls the ice in his cup. “We’re friends now, which is better than I deserve. And my kid can fucking write! Can you believe it? I swear to god, I never thought I’d be one to think their kid’s a genius for wiping his own ass, but I’m pretty fuckin’ sure I’m in love with this fatherhood thing.”

I tell him I’ve got four daughters, and I completely understand.

He winks at me. “Four, huh? Does it ever get old?”

"Not yet."

At this, he smiles. “I knew it.”

We talk about the first picture of Ben that hit the internet, how Dean went a little crazy for a while to try and guard him from the world. “I had more guards on him than I ever took on for myself, but one day I had him, and we were driving and I can just tell something’s bothering him. I think he’s two or three at this point, you know, when you can really tell that they’re just tiny people. So he just goes, ‘I’ll never do that, will I, daddy?’ and I look out at what he’s looking at, and he’s seeing these kids playing in the park, and I just knew that I wasn’t protecting him. I was protecting me.”

From what?

"From losing him, from not being in control, from being vulnerable. But the thing was, keeping him locked up in a tower didn’t change the fact that he could still get sick, that he could be in a car wreck. It didn’t change the fact that, for the first time in a long time, I loved something delicate."

He takes a cigarette out of his pocket, fiddles with it, then flicks it into the trash.

"You can smoke if you need to," I say.

"Yeah, but if I do, you’ll write about it, won’t you?" I nod. "Besides, I don’t like knowing I need to."

"How long have you been smoking?"

"Since I was fifteen or sixteen. I got this job as a waiter, and uh, only smokers got regular breaks. I’ve made stupider decisions, but I can’t remember any off the top of my head."

From waiting tables to overnight success?

"Hey, I’ve played the guitar since I was four. I don’t think that’s really overnight, do you? People like to think I picked up a guitar the day before I entered the scene, but the truth is that I worked my ass off before I ever had any hope of getting big. Every musician, every artist, they put in work that nobody ever talks about because it’s not sexy to think we had to learn chords before we could strum them, you know?"

"I take it that’s something you’ve heard before?"

He laughs. “That obvious, huh?”

A little bit.

"Yeah, I can’t say I’m perfect. I’ve got buttons anyone could press, personal space issues; I need people more than anybody ever needed me. I don’t care about the things that are important, but I obsess over the things I can’t change. I about used myself up before I hit twenty-three, and I’m still building back from where I used to be. But, at thirty, I think I’m starting to grow up again. And hell if that ain’t something."

Were there some days you didn’t think you’d make it to thirty?

He breathes in, once, twice, before answering my question. “Yeah.”

You wanna talk about it?

There’s a short sound, and it could be a laugh. “No.”

The room has changed; I think we both feel it. But instead of calling the whole thing off, Dean stretches and says, “I’m kinda tired. How about you?”

Seeing visions of editors hissing in my ear, I nod, throat dry. [Ed. note:  I don’t hiss.]

"So why don’t we meet up tomorrow? But this time, how about at my place? I can’t promise anything, but I’ll make a few calls, see who’s available. You don’t want me talking about feelings for five pages, man."

"Not to push, but we could probably get it to seven if you-know-who shows up. He’s, uh, he’s Becky’s favorite."

"Becky?"

"My editor." [Ed. note:  Redaction—That was definitely a hiss.]

He grins. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The next morning, I get to his house about forty minutes too early. Like most people in this city who can afford them, he has gates across his driveway. The intercom is small and unfriendly. I really, really don’t want to buzz—what if he forgot? What if he’s still asleep? What if he’s in, but forgot to tell anyone? I’m not exactly famous enough that I can just go up to someone’s fancy gates and say, “Hello, this is Chuck—Chuck Shurley, you know, features writer for SPN.” Usually, or at least at family gatherings, I have to explain what SPN is first, and then what I write about, and how that’s using my journalism degree, like, at all.

But here, I only spend a few minutes staring at the gate in horror before a tinny voice calls out, “Hey, are you that Chuck guy?”

Yes. Yes, I am that Chuck guy.

The gates open.

I can’t really tell you what I was expecting. Some kind of misplaced Spanish villa, maybe, with worried-looking assistants running around. Instead, I find a contemporary paradise. Colorful painted tiles lead me to a fortress made of steel, concrete, glass, and wood. The gardens are all desert plants—things you can never name when you see them, but that feel at home in the sand and the sun. I can tell from my cursory glances that there is some greater pattern to the layout that isn’t quite clicking, but I make a note to look out if I am ever near a second-story window.

About that time, someone opens the door. She doesn’t look like an ax murderer, but that’s looks for you. She smiles, holds out her hand. “I’m Jo,” she says. We shake. She doesn’t move out of the way. “So,” pause. “Dean says you’re okay.”

"Uh, I think—"

She shakes her head. “Not finished. Dean says you’re okay. Dean’s a moron. He’s giving you way more than you need for your little music slash paranormal investigation slash gay romance magazine, and yes I fucking read it. Research. Not the point. Point is, I have knives, and they have points. So don’t. Fuck. Up.”

"Yes, ma’am."

"Don’t you say ma’am to me. I’m not impressed."

"…Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"I—I don’t know."

She nods, once. “Good.”

We stare at each other for a few more moments. I clear my throat, then say, “So, uh, is he uh, is he ready?”

She rolls her eyes and walks away. But she left the door open, so I walk in.

I mean, she probably won’t kill me. I’m a journalist.

[Ed. note:  I’m in love.]

[Counternote:  You would be.]

[Ed. note:  There’s no such thing as a “counternote.” Please just get to the part with Sam in it.]

After shuffling through the entryway for a few seconds, Dean walks in. He has a pencil in his mouth and is looking down at something in his hands. He’s wearing a white t-shirt, gray boxer-briefs, and a black robe. “Hey, Jo?” he calls, looking up to scan the room.

When he sees me, I try to make my face look like I’m doing anything besides looking at a young god.

I must be successful, because he just looks mildly confused. “Did I—?”

"Uh, Jo let me in."

"Oh, cool, so she calmed down?"

"I wouldn’t say that, exactly."

Dean looks like he’s going to ask what that means, but Jo is suddenly at his elbow.

"Dean Winchester, what is the point of having a security expert if you never listen to them?"

"Oh, hey, Jo."

"Don’t ‘hey, Jo’ me. People don’t have to seem like serial killers in order to be serial killers."

Dean gestures at me and says, “Come on!”

"Dean. Do you want me to call my mom?"

"What? No. Why would you call Ellen? How—how is she?"

"She’s fine. And as far as she knows, you’re fine. And you don’t want that to change, do you, Dean?"

"No!"

"Okay then. People who come to the house? I clear them. People who see you in your underwear? I clear them. Got it?"

"You didn’t clear Cas."

"He hit you. With a truck. He owed you. And anyway, don’t bring Cas into this."

"Yeah, well, you don’t, then."

Instead of responding, she turns to me. I don’t flinch because I am brave and strong and also too scared to move. “As it turns out, you’re okay. As far as I can tell, you’ve never been convicted of anything more than a parking violation. I’m sorry about earlier, but being in charge of your friend’s safety is stressful when your friend is an idiot.”

"Oh, uh, no harm done, right?"

She smiles. “Right!” Before she leaves, she turns to Dean again. “Oh, hey, it’s your birthday soon. What kind of pie did you want mom to make this year?”

"Her whiskey apple was really tasty, but anything would be awesome."

We both watch her leave, and then Dean says, “So. Coffee?”

I follow him into a bright room that would look like it belongs in a magazine if it weren’t for the open bottle of peanut butter sitting on the counter. Sam Winchester with sunlight limning his ruffled hair, though, could probably be sold to anyone. Ruby— _the_  Ruby!—sitting next to him, trying to sneakily put salt in his hair, is quite the picture, too; and you can see the way he loves her in even the gentle way he resists her.

Dean catches my eye, already knowing what I would ask. “Worth it,” he breathes, and I know it’s the last word he’ll say on the matter.

But Dean is not the only witness to the truth. The comfortable way that they fit into the room, the healthy color in Sam’s cheeks, the softness of Dean’s voice when he chides his brother, the ease around Ruby’s eyes when she looks up and notices me:  all of these say what Dean will not. That Sam leaving was a choice that he made for himself; that Ruby’s presence in his life is a good one, a healthy one; that although they met each other when each was lost, they are lost no longer.

I am reminded again of Dean’s initial statement to the press:  “Look, I’d rather have him in my life than in my band.”

But I am an outsider, and five hours in their presence doesn’t negate the fact that, like you, most of my knowledge of their relationship comes from information that was passed through the lens of what will sell. I don’t know how long it took to get them here; I can’t tell you if they still play together, or if Sam’s picked up his drumsticks in all the years since. I don’t know if Ruby ever wishes things had gone differently, or if she’s thankful, or if she ever even thinks of it. I don’t know these things—and neither do you, dear reader.

Dean is already seated, turned fully toward Sam. He’s using his half a piece of toast to illustrate his story, and Sam can’t decide where to put his hands. In the time it takes Dean to give his best impression of Jo plus toast, Sam’s run his fingers through his hair, tickled Ruby a little, knocked over the salt shaker, and pushed the remnants of his tofu scramble to the center of his plate. Dean put his elbow in the saucer of maple syrup when he reached over to ruffle Sam’s hair.

Ruby leans over and pats the place next to Dean. “They’re always like this,” she says conspiratorially, just loud enough that it’s not intended to be sneaky, but quiet enough that it doesn’t interrupt the brothers. “They saw each other two days ago, but you’d think it was months.”

"Kind of weird for an only child, isn’t it? My wife has seven sisters, and we had four daughters. And then I’m over here with my party of one."

She shakes her head. “No, I was actually pretty close to my cousins growing up. It’s not the same as those two weirdos, of course, but it gave me a point of reference.”

She’s quiet while I eat. It’s all delicious. Dean, I know, is not a vegan, but the food on the table is. There’s the aforementioned tofu scramble, home fries, fresh oranges, wheat toast, and a variety of sugary-sweet jams as bright as candy. I’ve just skinned an orange when she looks over my head and grins. “You look beautiful,” she says.

The table turns as a unit to see Castiel stumble in wearing silky black boxers and a look like a zombie volcano.

"Bacon," he says in answer.

Ruby snorts and turns her face into Sam’s shoulder to hide her laughter.

Dean rolls his eyes and leans toward Cas, catching his hand, dragging him in. There are gentle rumbles forming in Cas’s throat, but he’s sitting in Dean’s lap before he can express, with many imagined underlines, “ _Eggs_.”

Dean kisses his bewhiskered cheek. “Tofu,” he murmurs.

Cas sighs, nuzzling closer. “Tofu.”

Dean masterfully builds up a plate with one hand while the other strokes Castiel’s side. “Sam” is his only explanation for the not-bacon, not-eggs.

Cas nods. “Sam,” he says, blinking his way around the table. “Ruby. Not-Sam.”

"Chuck." Dean holds up a forkful of tofu.

"Chuck." Cas stares at it.

"Hi, Castiel," I say. "It’s nice to meet you."

He closes his eyes. “ _Coffee_.”

Dean and Ruby share a look, and Ruby again succumbs to laughter. Sam hides a small smile in his hand, then gets up and pours a new cup of coffee and sets it in front of Cas. “Coffee,” Sam says.

Cas wraps his hand around the mug and smiles up at Sam. “My favorite.”

Ruby throws a piece of toast at Cas. “ _My_  favorite! Get your own!”

Dean shakes his head. “Outcharmed by my own brother. And in front of company, too.”

Cas nibbles along Dean’s jawline. “You’re okay, too.” Then he leaned in closer and murmured something I couldn’t make out.

And that, dear reader, in when something I thought never to witness occurs:  the tips of Dean’s ears turn pink, then red; he looks down at the table; he wriggles in his seat a little (no small feat, considering his burden). He opens his mouth, closes it, and when again he opens it it’s only to smile not a little dreamily and say, simply, “Yeah.”

Dean Winchester blushes, and I’m in love.

The remainder of breakfast is spent waking up. Eyes grow brighter, yawns less frequent. Sentences become longer and more complex. The greatest change occurs within Castiel:  he who could speak only in growls became warm and, in a dry way, very funny. By the time Ruby was excusing herself with tales of work and Sam bashfully admitting that he hadn’t managed to clear his schedule, either, Dean was wearing pants and Cas was explaining the socioeconomic impact of pizza through the centuries.

We walk them to the door and, with a last lingering hug between brothers, they’re gone. Dean watches their car for a few moments, then turns to me with a smile. “So, how about that seven pages?”

I laugh. “It’s definitely nine or ten now. It’ll probably have to be started in the magazine, then finished on-line.”

He winces. “I hate that. I never actually read the last of it. The principle, you know?”

I shrug. “Yeah, but you’re Dean Winchester. You’re worth going on-line for.”

[Ed. note:  That’s code for “I didn’t even try to edit this down,” isn’t it?]

[Counternote:  Yes, ma’am.]

Instead of replying, he makes a grand show of herding me up the stairs. When he overreacts like this, it seems to be to distract people from how precious he is when he blushes. But I know the truth, dear reader:  and he is adorable.

We end up in a sitting room whose fourth wall is entirely made of glass. From what I can tell, it is perfectly situated in the center of the house. From a glance, I can just see the gates gliding back into place—and perhaps catch a glimpse of Ruby’s fabled red car.

“Showy,” Dean says beside me.

“Says the man with a steroid tank,” Cas says behind us. When I turn, he’s already nestled in what looks like furniture’s answer to the powder puff. When he sees me looking, he explains, “It looks stupid, but it’s fun. Dean hates it, so I make sure to use it all the time.”

“One, it’s a classic. Not some Eurotrash whatever. Two, you look like you’re in  _Playgirl_. Are you even getting dressed today?”

Cas wiggles a little and reaches behind himself to dislodge, and subsequently throw, a satiny pink pillow right at Dean’s head. “Maybe I’ll ask if they’ve got an opening. My selling point could be ‘Dean Winchester’s near-murderer and now-plaything.’” He turns his steel gaze to me, straight-faced, voice as dry as ever, and says, “Would you buy a copy?”

I have blocked any response I may have made from my memory.

[Ed. note: Let me guess. You turned bright red and stammered “no”?]

[Counternote: No!]

Castiel Winchester is a mean, mean man.

Once they both stop laughing, Dean tells Cas to scoot over and plops down on the weird chair. While I’m trying not to imagine anything involving our rival magazine, we finally arrive to the matter of the truck and why, exactly, Cas felt the need to vehicularly manslaughter Dean.

He shrugs. “It seemed like the thing to do at the time.”

“His freaking cat was sick, and he didn’t have a carrier.”

“What?”

“Yeah! So he wasn’t looking at the road, he was twisted around and looking for the cat!”

“Was the cat okay?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “I’m in traction for eight weeks, and you’re asking about the cat?”

“Kitty was and is fine—she’s roaming around here somewhere. And you weren’t in traction. You broke one leg.”

“You mean  _you_  broke one… my leg.”

“Fate broke your leg. Because, after all, if I hadn’t nudged you with my bumper—“

“At thirty miles an hour!”

“—we wouldn’t enjoy our happy matrimony.”

“Whatever.”

Castiel is playing with the delicate, static-floating fringe of the chair, his thoughts far away. He looks up at Dean with a smile that barely touches his face, but which transforms his features. “Do you remember what you first said to me?”

Dean looks down at his hands. “I still say this never happened.”

Cas takes Dean’s right hand in his and slips his left arm around so that he is hugging Dean’s arm. He kisses Dean on the shoulder, once, then leans against Dean and closes his eyes. Dean’s looking at him like he’d get hit by ten trucks to get to this. “I asked if you were okay, and if you needed an ambulance.”

Dean looks away from Cas, to the left, in an attempt to convince us both that he’s very interested in the rug between us. “I have no memory of this. I was in shock.”

“And you said—what did you say?”

“’Help, please, take me to the hospital, I’m murdered.’”

“No, really.”

Dean sighs and looks up at me from below his eyelashes. “’I don’t need an ambulance. I’m famous.’ And you laughed at me,” he says, turning back to Cas.

Cas blinks and looks up at Dean. “I thought you didn’t remember?”

“Of course I remember. It hurt!”

“Well, I did break your leg with my truck.”

Dean shakes his head. “When he finally stops laughing heartlessly at my sad and pitiful state, he takes me to the emergency room where it takes three hours for someone else to confirm that I’m famous and that I really did need to call my team since I’d been due at some awards thing later that night.”

“The Grammys,” Cas supplies.

“Wasn’t that the year you guys won best album?” I ask.

Dean grins. “You know, it might just be.”

“Yes. That was another thing he kept threatening me with—that I was keeping him from very important Grammy attendance gifts. Did you know that awards shows basically bribe people to show up to them? The Oscars had the most amazing chocolate this year.”

“Attendance gifts?” I look at Dean. “You weren’t expecting the Grammy itself?”

“I was drugged. I was in shock. I didn’t know what I was saying.”

“So anyway, once Gabriel—“

“My lawyer.”

“—shows up, Dean tells me that the only way he won’t sue for custody of his leg—“

“High! High on painkillers!”

“—is if I go out with him. And Gabriel  starts to rattle off legal precedents, and there are all these machines beeping at me and it’s been four hours and I’m just tired. So I tell Dean that, if he remembers who I am in a month’s time, he can ask me out again and I’d answer him then.”

“Not even a guaranteed yes,” Dean huffs.

“And I leave, figuring, you know, big time music guy, painkillers, has his own lawyer… I was never going to see him again, so I just tried to forget about him.”

“But he couldn’t.”

“But I couldn’t. That’s the problem with hitting famous people with cars on the night they’re set to win a major award:  the news talks about those famous people more than you might expect.”

I can imagine.

“And even though I’ve told myself it would never work, I’ll never see him again, it’s all in the past; a month later, and I wake up and there’s static in the air. Things are going to happen. I know it, I can feel it. This is the day.”

“And I never come.”

“And he never comes.”

“So he calls me, because giving out my personal cell phone number to strangers is a thing that I do when I’m high and besotted, apparently.”

“And I ask him what the fuck was the point of getting my hopes up if he’s just going to be an asshole and hang up the phone before he can respond.”

“But I never got his name! He didn’t give me his number! How was I supposed to find him? Am I some kind of magical telepath to know these things? So for me, my month has been filled with parties and doctor visits and meetings and physical therapy, and Gabriel won’t let me see the insurance papers until I admit I’m wrong on something or other (which I definitely was not), and all this time I’m obsessing over this sardonic man who hit me with a truck and told me to fuck off, basically, the moment I admitted I was into him. So I call the fucker back, because of course I recognize his voice since it’s been narrating all my dreams, and I ask him where he is and if he’s decent and would he just marry me already?”

Cas laughs. “And it’s stupid, but I say yes.”

“I mean, we didn’t get married right away. It was over a year, at least. But from the start, we were very serious, very all-or-nothing.”

“For as long as we both shall live.”

Dean kisses the corner of Cas’s lips. “Yeah.”

I thank them for their time. I shake Cas’s hand, but Dean hugs me. “Come over any time you want Jo to yell at you,” he says, and I tell him I’m not into that. He slaps me on the back and starts to walk me to the door, but I ask him to hold on a moment.

When I get to the window and look down, I sigh happily. The garden is organized into stepped terraces; the pattern which eluded me earlier was the path the water took. The small fountains that watered the gardens were surrounded by blue-flowering plants, or those with blue-green leaves; and the more removed a plant was from the water, the more it slid toward yellow on the spectrum. Even the tiles which lined the irrigation canals reflected this theme. Seeing this, I looked to the path I walked down, and even here the colors blue, yellow, and green were dominant.

A thought is just beginning to form when it’s confirmed:

“I still haven’t found a flower the color of his eyes,” Dean says softly. “But looking is just as good as finding sometimes.”

"Not all the time," I reply.

He looks over his shoulder toward Cas. “Yeah. Not all the time.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the TFW Secret Santa event on tumblr. The prompt was something like, "Castiel hits Dean Winchester with his car; Dean is famous, and Castiel has no idea." I actually wanted it to be a lot longer, but there you go.
> 
> Although most people probably don't consider her a part of it, I think Ruby is one of the most important elements of TFW. She kind of displaced Bobby in this story, although not in the history of the band. She's the "Yoko Ono" for Like A Seal Over My Heart: although Sam had been disillusioned with the band for a while, and although the life of a professional musician was ruining his relationship with his brother, the majority of the band's fans think it's Ruby's fault that they broke up. She enjoys this position, though, and tries to play up her evilness to the cameras, paparazzis, and stalker fans she encounters.
> 
> The current band line-up:  
> Ellen: manager  
> Ash: in charge of supervising all technical parts  
> Dean: lead guitar, lead vocals  
> Bartholomew: bass guitar, harp, piano  
> Meg: percussionist  
> Castiel: back-up vocals, although he's not an official member
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it. :)


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